Introducing English cakes to Kenya

This morning as I was snaffling my treasured Weetabix I noticed that some of our bananas were over ripe. Too much so to eat. As a result I decided to make banana bread out of them to avoid wastage. This sounds very sensible until I tell you I've never made banana bread before and my house doesn't have an oven. These 2 things combined are a challenging combination. I've also never made a proper cake in a microwave.

However, there were most of the necessary ingredients in the house, including rather surprisingly, bicarbonate of soda which was owned for medicinal purposes (and I can't imagine what that would be!). My host mum couldn't believe it when I told her that this white powder, when mixed with lemon juice, could make cakes rise. And if I'm honest I wasn't totally sure I believed it would work either, I was quite prepared to make an embarrassing mess, or even a good cake that was considered not to local tastes (they don't eat cake as we know it here). However, what eventually happened was that I made a smashing banana cake that everyone but me liked (I had poured the salt in free hand and had overdone it terribly ).

There is only one type of cake here in njoro: it is very dry and plain. I have mistaken it for a bread roll on more than one occasion. Imagine everyone's surprise then when I pulled a moist banana cake with raisins in it from the microwave, I'm not sure that mama had ever had anything like it. Georgina and I had 2 slices before dinner and then another one after when no one was looking. Mama says that we can eat it for breakfast tomorrow too, because there's no such concept as dessert here, when else would you eat a cake?!

If you ever find yourself abroad, with limited cooking utensils and the need to ingratiate yourself with your host, I would highly recommend this recipe:

Clare's Kenyan Banana bread

1.5 cups wheat flour
3/4 cups sugar
1/2 cup blue band (plus some to grease)
1/3 cup milk (long life is ok)
2 eggs
2 medium sized bananas, roughly mashed
2 lemons (if making this in UK, 1 lemon will do as they're bigger)
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1/2 tsp salt (do not pour freehand!)
1/2 cup raisins or currants

1. Mix ingredients in order listed above except currents. Use a larger bowl than initially expected as the mixing aerates the mixture and makes it larger. When it comes to cracking eggs, note that Kenyan eggs have tough shells and plastic mixing bowls can be hard to crack them on. Maybe tap against a wall, or knife instead. If you're in the habit of tasting the raw mixture, do not be alarmed if it tastes strongly of bicarbonate, it fades with cooking.
2. Grease a microwave proof dish. Tupperware works well. Depending on what you have available you may need to divide your mixture and bake 2. Do not worry about using your hands to grease the containers - Kenyan households don't disapprove like a British onlooker would. Tip your mixture into the tubs. Sprinkle all your currents/nuts on top (they will distribute themselves while cooking).
3. Microwave on high for 7 minutes. Use a clean knife to check if it is done (no other senses! Sometimes it looks less ready than it is). If you insert a clean knife into centre and it comes out clean, then it's ready. If not give 2 mins more and repeat.
4. Allow to cool in container for 5 minutes, it makes it much easier to turn out.

Home alone - We've gone wild and eaten a Wheetabix

Overnight last night Georgina (my Kenyan sister) and I have been home alone. How very exciting! What do 2 young 20 something year olds get up to when they have a free house you may ask? Well, they share 1 can of beer between 2, cook themselves a (much craved for) balanced meal and then, because the television remote is free, they watch soaps on TV (the soaps here are fantastic because they are imported from Mexico and dubbed terribly (imagine a scene in which every single line is delivered as if it were the punchline, with feeling. Great, you've got it).  The story lines too are ridiculous e.g. stealing babies to somehow resolve a love tryst. They are so bad they're good, much like a Christmas cracker joke). All the volunteers here are quite addicted to the soaps, indeed, they're very popular across the whole country. We had a very happy evening watching a love pentagon unfold on screen, sadly it'll take 3 months to resolve, by which time I'll be long gone. In the morning I went out and bought Weetabix for us both, what a luxury. We had to eat the whole pack between us in order to hide any evidence and avoid offending our hosts (to whom it hasn't occurred that we might fancy anything other than bread) so I was feeling rather full. The lager can and Weetabix packet then both had to be cut up and hidden in the pit latrine to cover our tracks. What rebels we are!

Glad I crashed the wedding

I put on my most scruffy clothes in order to do some laundry in the garden and then I accidentally crashed a wedding instead.

This all came about when I came across a number of brides maids in the house and asked where the bride was. Instead of telling me, they decided to show me. The bridesmaids were an impressive sight. They wore floor length yellow dresses and to protect themselves against the chilly African summer they also wore 3/4 length blue jackets. I tried to apologise at this point for my own scruffy attire (the Velcro on my trousers was long gone and the flies wouldn't stay closed!) but they brushed off my excuses and said that white people always dressed as I had. Which I received with mixed feelings as the most inadvertently backhanded complement I'd ever heard.

The bride (who was the youngest of 14 children) was at home in the neighbouring street in her white dress. Unlike British brides, she didn't appear to be wearing any make up. She also wasn't particularly interested in having her photo taken and kept saying that she just wanted to see the groom. In this way we ran half an hour early, which would also never happen in England. By the time I had met the bride, the bridesmaids had already invited me to the wedding and seemed quite offended when I asked the bride if this really was ok. It's very hard to explain how much it's not ok in the UK to turn up to a wedding in the UK without an invite from the bride, groom or their parents. They were a lovely group of girls, largely with a good grasp of English. I asked the one sat next to me how the bride and groom had met and to my amazement she didn't know. No way would this happen at home! To my surprise I was invited to join the bride and bridesmaids for a photo, which I was flattered by (although I suspect it may have something to do with my skin colour) but I was glad to oblige (at this point mama came unexpectedly surging into the room to also get in shot before totally disappearing again.) After this there were some speeches. I couldn't understand what was going on as it was in Swahili so I just stood in the background. The speeches were being filmed and about 75% of the way through I realised that 'in the background' was actually a highly inappropriate place to stand because it meant that I was in shot, unlike the regular audience members.

Once this was over we went outside and I was amazed to find that the yard was full of people including mama. I realised then that the bridesmaids I'd been chatting to on arrival had escorted me into the VIP zone without me having realised it. I felt very unworthy but greeted mum and tagged along with her in the wedding convoy (everyone who had a car appeared to have lent it and allowed them to be bedecked with ribbons) so we drove off to church. Almost the entirety of the bride's reception had been females and at the church we were greeted by the men. Then the whole congregation clapped, cheered, shrieked and whistled the loving couple in through the doors. Mama hung back as the crowd danced after them and I stayed with her but once she was reassured that there would indeed be enough seats inside, we followed on. The service resumed and I came to regret my decision to attend as the sermon alone lasted hours. It was delivered in English by a preacher who had to pause after every sentence for someone else to translate into Swahili. This disjointed speech sounded even more unnatural because he bellowed the whole thing, as if every sentence was a punch line. This even included bible references such as,
"THE BOOK OF JOHN!"
        "kitabu cha john"
"CHAPTER SEVEN!"
        "sura ya saba"
"VERSE THIRTEEN!"
        "aya kumi na tatu"

While all this shouting was irritating me, it didn't seem to have captured the attention of the audience very well either as mama next to me sent a couple of texts.

Eventually the wedding reached it's climax. The audience was delighted, we were shouting and whooping and someone had brought a whistle to give a bit of extra gravitas to the vows. To my surprise, instead of saying "you may kiss the bride" the pastor said something along the lines of "you may feed the bride wedding cake" and a cake feeding ceremony commenced that involved a good chunk of the audience (sadly it ran out before it reached me). This ensured that good cheer was restored again before we were released from the church. I quickly decided that I'd had enough ceremony for one day and much to the disappointment of the bridesmaids I trotted off to be reunited with the rest of the volunteers, who were busy painting a children's home.

The Child who followed me Home

One day I acquired a child. I didn’t mean to though. It was an accident.

When I walk down the street I stand out like a glowing white beacon. This is particularly exciting for the children who rush to greet me shouting “Howareyou!” and not necessarily understanding my reply. The parents watch on proudly as their young offspring get to shake the hand of a musungu (white person) and at times like this I often feel like my pasty skin’s value has been somewhat overestimated but I haven’t yet learnt enough Swahili to communicate this theory. Anyway, on this particular day I had greeted a large group of children and even given a hair tie away to a little girl with no hair and a fascination for my possessions. When everyone had been thoroughly howareyou-ed I turned off the dusty main road onto the quieter side track and realised I was being followed by a very little person with knobbly knees and a grubby grey cardigan. I assumed that this was someone who had missed out on a handshake and didn’t want to be overlooked. So, I extended my hand in a friendly way and the little person took it. They then weren’t very keen to let go and I wondered if they were actually just intending to accompany me as I we both walked to our respective homes. That would be fine by me and so we walked on hand in hand.

I felt a bit unsure as to the gender of my new friend as I couldn’t guess from their clothes. I wondered vaguely where they lived and how much of the journey we would spend together. I tried to start a conversation but this wasn’t very effective as they didn’t speak any English and I didn’t speak any Swahili (at least, none beyond a few key phrases). It didn’t seem to matter though as they seemed very happy just to be clutching on to my hand.

When we reached my road and the child seemed to be ready to follow me there I queried whether this was correct, surely this was too much coincidence. I let go of the child’s hand and said as much out load. It was totally useless though, and they simply gazed back at me with big brown eyes, not understanding a word. My fears were confirmed when we reached my gate and they simply trotted on through. Still, I thought, at least there will be someone inside at home that can speak Swahili and send the child on its way. I found the flaw in this plan when I reached the locked door and realised that no one was in. We have one too few house keys and I had drawn the short straw. So I sat on the door step, now in the deep darkness and proceeded to entertain the child with my phone. It was fascinated by the touch screen and very happy indeed to spend half an hour opening menus and then turning my wifi on and off again.

Eventually Mama returned. She’d had a long day and was probably not best pleased to find me with an abducted child on her doorstep. Still, she kindly let us both in and spoke to the child. Rather disappointingly I still didn’t get to find out its gender because mama is a bit confused by the English language and used ‘him’ and ‘her’ interchangeably. She asked it where it lived – it didn’t know, and why it had ended up on her doorstep – well, that was simple, the white woman had MADE it come!

Twelve blind dates

This evening, all the volunteers have been on a blind date. The system worked like this: the boys met at 6 and were sent to various restaurants in the area. The girls met at 6.15 and were instructed to attend the appropriate locations (we had one main matchmaker orchestrating the whole thing). We would have to chat to our date for 1 hour before reuniting in 1 central bar. Everyone had made a bit of an effort and dressed up smart. The girls were even in make up for once.


When I arrived at the café I recognised my Kenyan friend, Charles, waiting for me. I've always thought he was quite nice, a bit of a cheeky chap but underneath it quite clever and sensitive. This assessment remains unchanged by the obligation to talk to him for an hour. Indeed we actually stretched in out to 2 hours. That's a long time to nurse a cup of tea for! One thing that really made me laugh as we chatted was the discovery that Kenyan school children are in the habit of setting fire to their dormitories when they want to protest about something such as poor exam results. Charles himself had done so twice. This reminded me very much of stories of my own dad setting off fireworks in the corridor at his school (not that I managed to say so, as I found the concept of fireworks a bit difficult to explain). At the end he gave me a bar of chocolate wrapped in brown paper, which was sweet, and asked if we could go on a date again.


When we got to the bar where the rest of the gang were (or at least 75% of them, as plenty were yet to return) it was lovely to hear the reports everyone had had a good time, even people who had been sent on dates with someone they didn't expect to like. It gradually became evident that some people had consumed rather a lot of alcohol on their dates, which I found extremely funny. Some couples were completely plastered!! It was lovely that they had done this in pairs, so no one had overdone it alone and people were able to fall over in good company.  This scenario was made more funny still by the fact that they'd have to slip subtly into religious households that mostly didn't allow alcohol on the premises. We've all been there!

In the field I'm still not streetwise

Yesterday we met our entrepreneurs for the first time (quick recap on why this is important: I'm in Kenya to work with a group of five and I've spent the last week in training to get me ready for this moment). I'm not going to lie, it wasn't a glorious moment, it was actually quite awkward as I tried to ingratiate myself with 5 strangers  at once none of whom spoke English as a first language, and in the certain high-pressure knowledge that a trust relationship is essential to working partnerships here.

After this session one entrepreneur invited us back to his shop. Are we happy to walk, it's a kilometer away? Of course we are! This was a great opportunity to get to know him better, overcome the language barrier through  seeing and doing and ultimately build the all-important bonds of trust that I keep being told are so important.  An hour and a half later, still following our entrepreneur across fields in the midday sunshine (sun cream in hand, reapplying anywhere that felt 'too hot') I was beginning to feel less enthusiastic.

However, when we eventually arrived we were rewarded with panoramic views of Kenyan plains, we saw the shop space he had built (a little wooden shack by the roadside), walked around his house (an old colonial mansion), met his puppies, were shown his fields, his aunt's house and the junior school he attended. On the way back he told us about his history: He went to Njoro boys school and had previously worked selling cars. Great! Were really getting somewhere.  I was tired, extremely grubby (I didn't need sun cream from the knee down, such was the covering of dust) but very pleased we'd made the journey to see his village and get to know our first entrepreneur.

The next day, my group discussed the experience. There is one Kenyan (Paul) and one English chap (Matt). This mix of cultures is absolutely  invaluable as Paul went on to demonstrate: He pointed out that there's a certain lack of evidence the house we were shown really did belong to the entrepreneur (he may have just picked the biggest house in the village and claimed it); the wooden  shack didn't look like it was freshly built and there's no proof he owns it as he didn't produce the key to it while we were there; Njoro boys school is a good school and his level of English isn't of the standard of their graduates; cars are expensive, claiming to be a car seller to impress a stranger here is a bit like meeting a guy in a UK night club pretending to be a banker, it just sounds prestigious and may not be true. Oh my God!

You can take the gullible idiot out of England but you can't change her in the slightest. I may be too wise nowadays to follow a someone home because they've offered me a bacon sandwich but I feel like I still have a lot to learn...

Woman, known your limits!

Today I had a personal development meeting with my team leader in which I was advised to remember that sometimes it's enough to know I've done my best, it's not possible to make everything good through effort alone. I was brooding on this. It's not my standard approach to life. I'm of the 'give 100% all the flipping time' cast. I was therefore feeling a bit glum, but this was perhaps because I hadn't eaten lunch and so was looking for a café for something to boost my sugar levels and give me some space in which to reflect. It started to rain. In Kenya it tends not to rain but to pour, so my standards were low and I went into the first café I saw. A man asked me what I wanted, showed me to a table and gave me a Fanta. So far so good, but he then drew up a chair and sat down next to me. Not so good. Worse still the entire population of the pub (for that's what it turned out to be) then proceeded to discuss me jovially and I suspect not kindly, in Swahili. I tried to focus on a doodle I was doing, but it was not enough of a distraction from the very uncomfortable situation I had found myself in. The room was not large, but it was full, and conversation was loud, boisterous and focused on me. After about 10mins of polite British silence, I got up, pushed past the guy and went to sit in an adjoining room, which was much larger and where there was a spare table. I had been there no longer than 30 seconds when a man came over to me and cheerfully introduced himself to me. Nice as he was, I had totally had it with unfamiliar men in this particular pub on this particular afternoon, so I told him I was well, called Clare and needed some peace and quiet please. He seemed okay with this and patiently sat diagonally opposite me in silence until such time as I might change my mind. Better still, when the next guy came over to bother me, he was told by the first guy to go away. The exchange took place in Swahili but I distinctly recognised the phrase "peace and quiet". This happened rather loudly and the whole pub assumed an air of respectful silence. It was like a church!
I doodled happily. If this was as good as it was going to get, so be it. I was aware every time I looked up that all eyes were on me, but at least the room was quiet and no one was bothering me. I got a nice picture drawn of Georgina and I doing the washing. I was just considering drawing another one of me in a scary pub when some idiot came along, shook my hand and then wouldn't let go. It was only 3 in the afternoon, there are no excuses for being this drunk! While working out how best to reclaim my hand without making a scene Ronald arrived! Ta ran ta rah!! He is one of my star entrepreneurs, had heard where I was and had offered to come meet me (I'm not clear on why, but I'm not arguing). Boy was I pleased to see him! And he was certainly surprised to see me by myself in a pub such as that. Of course the original idiot let go of my hand when he saw that I had male company. Ronald advised me on the correct price for my drink (as not knowing this was the key reason I hadn't already left - I was worried I'd be overcharged by hundreds of shillings) and after I'd acted on this advice, we left to go to football practice (we've got a balloon Kenya team and it includes entrepreneurs, especially good young ones like Ronald). I think I learnt an important lesson today about where not to drink Fanta. (Ronald understands, as a door to door beautician, escaping predatory ladies is a high priority. He's now very good at this. Unlike me)

I am lost. This time in the literal sense.

I must admit I have caused chaos this evening! It all started when I took a shortcut over the fields to home and found I was suitably disoriented and couldn't remember where my house was. I took a stab at it though. My good friend Matt walked me home to make sure I got there safely (happily calling out "hello" to everyone we passed; he's lovely and hasn't yet got over the excitement of being here). I took us to the house I thought was mine, looked through the gate's peephole to double check it was correct and saw a goat. Error.
Time for plan B. I went back to Matts house where his mum gave me juice and I 'helped' him change the fuse box and entertained the neighbour's children. Then I got my mum's number off someone else. When she heard my voice she was delighted "CRARE!!" I could hear whoops of laughter when I told her I was lost and at Elisabeth's house. Elizabeth is the name of Matt's mama and I quite wrongly assumed that my mama knew where this was. I also assumed that on hearing her little lamb was lost she'd be swiftly on her way to pick me up, as I had quite strategically stranded myself somewhere I felt quite sure was nearby. However, in her defence, my mum isn't very good at English and she had assumed that I was visiting someone called Elizabeth for supper. Meanwhile there was also bedlam over all our communication channels as everyone clocked that someone was lost. In fact maybe lots of people were lost. Where was Georgina my Kenyan counterpart for instance? The joke caught on and everyone claimed to be checking on their counterpart (no, he's not in the jacuzzi, nor in the conservatory, my gosh).
Eventually Matt's fuse box was fixed and it was totally dark. Elizabeth then offered to escort me home. She too made the assumption that I would be staying at her house for dinner so I had quite a long wait while this was ironed out but I didn't want to impose on poor Matt who had only ever intended to be gentleman enough to walk me home. As we walked Elizabeth disclosed that she also didn't know where my mum lived but would take me to the right past of town!!!!! This particularly worried me as I had taken myself to the right part of town already and come face to face with a goat. However by some miracle the next gate I peaked through I saw my own back yard and my mama with a bundle of washing and so we all went in to say hello (Mama's real daughter has been asking after Matt ever since).


Today in class we are going to be drawing maps of the area.